A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

blessing and curse
– you do understand that, don't you?'
    'There is no blessing in that absence,' the Jhag said,
shaking his head. 'All that I have done cannot demand its
rightful price. Cannot mark my soul. And so I remain
unchanging, forever naïve—'
    'Innocent—'
    'No, not innocent. There is nothing exculpatory in
ignorance, Taralack Veed.'
    You call me by name, now, not as 'friend'. Has mistrust
begun to poison you? 'And so it is my task, each time, to
return to you all that you have lost. It is arduous and wears
upon me, alas. My weakness lies in my desire to spare you
the most heinous of memories. There is too much pity in
my heart, and in seeking to spare you I now find that I but
wound.' He spat on his hands and slicked back his hair,
then stretched his hands out once more close to the flames.
'Very well, my friend. Once, long ago, you were driven by
the need to free your father, who had been taken by a
House of the Azath. Faced with terrible failure, a deeper,
deadlier force was born – your rage. You shattered a
wounded warren, and you destroyed an Azath, releasing
into the world a host of demonic entities, all of whom
sought only domination and tyranny. Some of those you
killed, but many escaped your wrath, and live on to this
day, scattered about the world like so many evil seeds.
    'The most bitter irony is this: your father sought no
release. He had elected, of his own will, to become a
Guardian of an Azath House, and it may be he remains so
to this day.
    'In consequence of the devastation you wrought,
Icarium, a cult, devoted since time began to the Azath,
deemed it necessary to create guardians of their own.
    Chosen warriors who would accompany you, no matter
where you went – for your rage and the destruction of the
warren had torn from you all memory of your past – and so
now you were doomed, for all time, it seemed, to seek out
the truth of all that you have done. And to stumble into
rage again and yet again, wreaking annihilation.
    'This cult, that of the Nameless Ones, thus contrived to
bind to you a companion. Such as I. Yes, my friend, there
have been others, long before I was born, and each has
been imbued with sorcery, slowing the rigours of ageing,
proof against all manner of disease and poison for as long as
the companion's service held true. Our task is to guide you
in your fury, to assert a moral focus, and above all, to be
your friend, and this latter task has proved, again and again,
the simplest and indeed, most seductive of them all, for it
is easy to find within ourselves a deep and abiding love for
you. For your earnestness, your loyalty, and for the unsullied
honour within you.
    'I will grant you, Icarium, your sense of justice is a harsh
one. Yet, ultimately, profound in its nobility. And now,
awaiting you, there is an enemy. An enemy only you, my
friend, are powerful enough to oppose. And so we now
journey, and all who seek to oppose us, for whatever reason,
must be swept aside. For the greater good.' He allowed himself
to smile again, only this time he filled it with a hint of
vast yet courageously contained anguish. 'You must now
wonder, are the Nameless Ones worthy of such responsibility?
Can their moral integrity and sense of honour match
yours? The answer lies in necessity, and above that, in the
example you set. You guide the Nameless Ones, my friend,
with your every deed. If they fail in their calling, it will be
because you have failed in yours.'
    Pleased that he had recalled with perfection the words
given him, Taralack Veed studied the great warrior who
stood before him, firelit, his face hidden behind his hands.
Like a child for whom blindness imposed obliteration.
    Icarium was weeping, he realized.
    Good. Even he. Even he will feed upon his own anguish
and make of it an addictive nectar, a sweet opiate of self-recrimination
and pain.
    And so all doubt, all distrust, shall vanish.
    For from those things, no sweet bliss can be wrung.
    From overhead, a spatter of cold rain, and the deep
rumble of thunder. The storm would soon be upon them. 'I
am rested enough,' Taralack said, rising. 'A long march
awaits us—'
    'There is no need,' Icarium said behind his hands.
    'What do you mean?'
    'The sea. It is filled with ships.'
     
    The lone rider came down from the hills shortly after the
ambush. Barathol Mekhar, his huge, scarred and pitted
forearms spattered with blood, rose from his long, silent
study of the dead demon. He was wearing his armour and
helm, and he now